


The Sacred Revolution

by Morie_mordant



Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Cussing, Drama, Feelings, Other, Revolutionaries, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-23 16:23:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7470741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morie_mordant/pseuds/Morie_mordant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one in the whole world would be like you; even if they wanted - no one could.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sacred Revolution

**Author's Note:**

> Nnoitora really should wash his mouth with some soap.

“Pussies aren’t welcomed here, - Nnoitora snapped, bending over his high boot and trying to tie shoelaces, - pussies are goners, they wet their pants in dark corners and croak”.

Tesla stopped for a moment, glanced at his master, but on second thoughts instantly went back to sorting documents and maps. Nelliel frowned.

“This is called sanity, not weakness”, - she tried to talk some sense into Nnoitora’s head.

What a dumb woman, his master had never listened to the voice of reason. In fact, there should be no other voice in that room, but his own. Especially yours, woman. _Especially_ yours.

“Do you know the end of the story about three hundred Spartans?”  
“Oh, gods, again one of ya stupid books, nitwit? I don’t need ya erudition, all those sorts of tricks; I’m a fighter. And a man. Ya badmouth me. Ya know what I do with those who badmouth me?”

Nelliel jerked her head as if he slapped her and turned to Tesla, looking at him with some demand, probably expecting him to support her. You could wait forever, bitch, got it? He understood Nnoitora-sama unlike you. He followed Nnoitora-sama, disregarding idiotic extrinsic factors. Was he following his master to death?

Well, he did not care. For god’s sake, it wasn’t the first time, was it?

“I do not approve your actions, - Nelliel forced the words through gritted teeth, - and I will not let my people under your command. I am going to describe the situation to Aizen-sama”.  
“Go ahead, - Nnoitora finished one boot and started fastening the second. – By the time ya’re honored with the audience, muttonhead, we’ll already be far away from here. I’ll snuff it in a jolly battle, while ya continue to defend that dubious pleasure to die in ya own bed, smelling like sick and old bones”.

*

Tesla did not want Nnoitora-sama to die. He really did not want that, but he was making him coffee, preparing a warm bath, an edible breakfast, cleaned his boots, washed and ironed his clothes, worshiped him and died for him, killing others and sometimes himself.

Nelliel had that bizarre aim of curing Nnoitora-sama, however, she did not realize that if indeed she cured that disease, there would be nothing left of him. That woman was too foolishly intelligent; such were not welcomed during the war.

They left the city of everlasting sun and entered the wasteland of endless night. Tesla breathed in the dry air, which scratched his throat and lungs. The more distant Las Noches was to them, the closer were soul reapers and the battlefield. Vanguard led by Nnoitora Gilga was heading towards certain death and eternal glory. When his master heard it, he loudly hawked and spat at his feet.

“Such shitheads ya all, - he sneered. – Wanna some glory, huh? My little naïve dunces, my gullible imbeciles. If ya wanna glory ya must frigging live. No one remembers the dead, there’s only a squad number and a communal grave, if ya’re lucky enough, of course. When ya die, ya won’t give a shit about all these fucking honors. Miserable souls wanna live, listen to me, ya don’t wanna die. Anyhow we all gonna die. That’s all we get – a fine death. Don’t expect anything beyond, scum”.

Nnoitora was the only one eager to die – and the only one who always survived. Tesla did not count himself, as he did not have a choice, he just followed his master: he would live as long as Nnoitora lived, and would have died if he did.

“Pray, Santa Teresa, collect your gory harvest, everyone, come here, motherfuckers, oh yeah, come at me altogether, right now, ya’ll meet my sacred wife, oh, ya’ll like it…”

He fought not for the sake of an idea or a leader; he never actually believed in God, although he mentioned gods from time to time (mostly when cussing), and bless his cussing, it was amazing. Nobody loved him, but some either respected or feared, others were forced to reckon with him.  
And Tesla. He stood in his perfectly white polished uniform, always perfectly a meter and a half behind and forty centimeters to the left, arms at sides, looking straight ahead. Tesla Lindocruz lost his eye and maybe even his soul. Tesla Lindocruz was given a curved saber instead, a rank in the army of Las Noches, the city that was striving for independence. He was also given a deranged commander and anxiety. The anxiety that was running across his fingertips, anxiety that was jolting his heart. He was given an empty eye socket, itching under the black patch.

Tesla was given raison d'etre.

*

“What the fuck are ya doing? Commander must die with his squad, whore, ya did it on purpose, didn’t ya? On purpose, yeah?”  
“Calm down. It was Aizen-sama’s order. In the case of failure of the operation, you have to be preserved at all cost, because you are a valuable soldier. Isn’t it your vaunted male pride?”  
"A man's pride is to die while standing on ya twos, drowning in bloodshed, ya blood, their blood. What would ya know about that, wench?"  
“Please, get hold of yourself. I get it, you are in shock, and you grieve…”  
“I wanna tear ya to pieces! Grieve? Get ya weapon out, Nelliel, ya’d see how much I grieve – and Santa Teresa, oh, she weeps, she screams, she wants to fight. I do not give a damn about all those orders and plans – I just wanna battle. Even such a shrew like ya is able to understand that. Tesla, bloody hell, enough of circling around me, ya have to occupy ya clumsy hooks with something. If ya’re here to treat that freaking scratch then do so already”.

Tesla needed no more, he put down the basin with warm water and took a wet towel. It immediately became dirty, and when he tried to wash it out, the strands of blood and grime were left on the surface of the water. Nnoitora-sama remained silent, when Tesla cleaned the gash on his shoulder, even when he grabbed the torn skin edges with tongs and pulled them together with fast and accurate stitches. It was a part of their mad-insane-beautiful routine. He learned to control both hands equally, and while Nnoitora-sama had never praised him for it, neither he yelled at him to get out, nursing himself on his own. He had done it a lot in the beginning – ages ago, when Tesla had just come to him.

Nelliel stormed out of the room, and Nnoitora accidently dropped the basin.

“Goddammit, it’s hot! Tesla, son of a bitch…”

*

When a precious captive was kidnapped, Nnoitora ran after her shortly, picking up the trail as if he was a bloodhound, giving everyone a wide and horrifying grin.

“We’re out for a hunt”.

“We gonna have some fun”.

“We’ll finally kick the bucket, Tesla, we gonna finally kick the bucket”.

That ‘we’ turned insides upside down, tightened his intestines into a knot, Tesla was shaking and burning. In petto, he wiped his sweaty hands with the ironed white jacket and squinted his only eye.

Not a soul was expecting them back at home: merciful and hateful Nelliel would have raced off to get them back and force them to live – but she was no more. Nowadays many were gone. The resilience of Las Noches was not believed to be unbreakable any longer. Revolution was dying, and desperate mottos sounded like death cries. Their last hope was that bourgeoisie captive, but she escaped – and the hope dimmed at the same time with the gas lamp in her cell. That way they lost both a hostage and Ulquiorra, the only person who could have returned her.  
That was why nobody stopped Nnoitora. It was reasoned if he wanted to succumb – whatever, hell with him. On the other hand, if he managed to somehow get that mawky redhead back, their perdition would delay for a couple of hours, days, sighs.

Tesla rested promptly a meter and a half behind and forty centimeters to the left. He breathed heavily. Lived out.

“How did it happen, Nnoitora-sama?”  
“Shut up, twat. Shut up. We doze for five minutes and then get up and catch up with these pricks”.  
“Roger”.

Nnoitora’s voice was raspy, and Tesla was aware that he should have got up – he had to get up – to patch his master up. To clean and stitch his wounds. To touch that hot rough skin of his.

“Tesla, son of a bitch, ya’re crying there or what? Bastard…”

He was not scared to die for Nnoitora-sama. For god’s sake, it wasn’t the first time, was it?


End file.
